


Sex, Lies and Photographs

by valerienne (valderys)



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Community: lotrpschallenges, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-22
Updated: 2010-02-22
Packaged: 2017-10-07 11:25:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/64682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valderys/pseuds/valerienne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cameras never help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sex, Lies and Photographs

**Author's Note:**

> Written for challenge #31 Photographs in 2005. This was a challenge to write a story not so much _inspired_ by a photograph, as _about_ a photograph.

He's posing, of course. Even here. Even hunching forward, his attention captured elsewhere, his body tense, leaning on his knees. He tries to hold the water bottle so casually, the cap turning negligently in his hand. Although, to be fair, it would look entirely natural but for the almost unconscious camera awareness angled in every line of his body. But then he's a master of all that. If there's one thing he's learnt in his life, it's to hold the crowd, to always be 'on', to continually be aware…

So it's surprising, perhaps, how much of him shines through. He's so serious, sitting on the steps of the trailer. And that's unusual. It's very rare that he doesn't hide behind some glint of humour, some obscene twinkle – it's the bulk of his charm, as he's been told often enough over the years. And he knows how he comes across is important. He's always conscious of his image, but for once he's not thinking about that. He's hunched forward impatiently, as though he's looking for someone. Or watching someone leave. A frown tugs at his forehead; it gives him creases in his skin, creases that will deepen over time, seaming the corners of eyes that will eventually begin to show his age, as they show everything that matters. People could drown in those eyes. They're his best feature and he knows it. The eyeliner is never a whim.

The hair is pushed back, short, and tousled. It's not his natural colour, but then he always prefers himself as a blond. Maybe blonds really do have more fun. And he's all about the fun. Usually. Maybe it's just that his own colour is such a boring mid-brown. And he's never boring, remember? Fun. That's the important thing. So he's got blond streaks, and they could be sun-kissed highlights, from surfing, from playing, from arsing around with his friends. They could be. But they're not. And he knows they're artificial. Later on, he'll wear it longer, feathered over his forehead, smoky eyes peering through concealing layers, and he'll do this because he looks good, but he'll also do this because he's starting to lose it all. Male pattern baldness occurs in up to 80% of all Caucasian males, and he knows that. He asked Jeeves.

His bare toes are curled over the steps of the trailer, bracing him as he leans forward. The metal is cutting in but he doesn't care, it's not important. If anything, it's such transitory discomforts that lets him know he's alive. He'll remember this philosophy soon, when LA is too large without a car, and everything runs on plastic he doesn't have, and phone calls he can't make. He'll remember it, but it won't help, not for an endless time.

Statements. He likes them. He likes to make things count, to feel like he's making a difference. And he likes writing on himself, things he needs to remember, doodles, shopping lists. So it is inevitable that these things go together. Isn't it? In black marker pen on the back of his hands. After all, girls do lie. People lie. Even friends lie. And it's hard to know where the personal statement ends and the public philosophy begins. He's not even sure himself, some days.

The camera captures his tension. It vibrates through him, despite the casual pose. A dichotomy that sums him up. Energy that leaks out like light, like life, that he reins in with meditation. With discipline.

So he hasn't leapt up off the step, despite his toes curled in expectation. He hasn't let himself run after his disappearing chance. The camera is there, and it's watching. He's too aware, as always. He's reined it all in. And he'll joke, in the future, about that chance he's watching walk away. He'll joke that he should have married him. And everyone will laugh because that's what he wants. And he's funny. He's fucking hilarious.

Because it's not just girls who lie. It's everyone. And maybe, just maybe, it's girls who are the lie.


End file.
